‘I can’t…’ What I can’t do is look my sister, Alice, in the eye. It’s too much. All of it.
‘Say yes, Libby.’ She’s crouching before me, reaching for my hand. I snatch mine away. As vivid as the memories of the calls are, it’s the time between each one I am struggling to recall. Alice says shock has the power to whisk memories behind a hazy curtain, sometimes replacing them with a better, shinier version – the way we wished things were. The way we wished they could have happened – and she’s probably right. Right about that, at least, but the rest… I have to remember if I’m to make the right decision. Again, I try to summon a slideshow in my mind but the images are as blurry as an out-of-focus photo, nothing quite making sense. ‘I think…’ I tail off, unsure what I think. What I know. She’s been telling me a new life, a better life, is what I need. What I deserve.
That word plucks a hollow laugh from deep in my belly. Deserve.
Do I deserve… this?
‘You know what you have to do, Libby.’ Her voice thick with tears. ‘For your sake. For Jack’s.’ She adds softly. ‘For mine.’
Sometimes I hate her.
Should I do what she is asking? If I agree, it’s an admission that my life has been built on a lie and the childish part of me wonders why should I give her what she wants when I can’t have what I want.
‘Please, Libby, please,’ she pleads. ‘I know it’s a big ask. I know you weren’t expecting this – none of us saw it coming but…’ One whispered word, ‘Please.’
Neither of us speaks. The clock ticks. In the distance, the beep of a horn. Alice’s perfume fills my throat, something light and floral.
‘Jack—’
‘Don’t speak his name,’ I snap.
She flinches, but still she doesn’t leave. She’s waiting for an answer as she tucks her long blonde hair behind her ear. I lean back in my chair, eyes flickering over the nicotine-yellow ceiling we never did get around to painting bright white, as though I might find the right response written there.
Yes or no.
Yes or no.
Yes or no.
The words are loud. I raise my hands to my head, fingertips digging hard into my scalp. I can’t decide. I won’t.
Jack.
I have to.
Think.
‘You know if I could change things, I would,’ Alice says softly. She places her palm against my cheek; it’s cool and I lean against it, allowing her to take the weight of my head, which is heavy with thought. With doubt. For the first time I look at her, her eyes, the same green as mine, are rimmed red. The whites streaked with tiny blood vessels where she’s been crying and I realize she is no more together than I am. This is as torturous for her as it is for me. ‘If I could go back…’ She falls silent before she can again blame herself. I can’t bear her guilt. Her shame. I have enough of my own.
If we could go back, I would return to the exact moment everything changed. It was the day we moved in here. I shift my gaze around the room that was once warmed with love but now feels as chilly as my cold, cold heart. I allow myself to remember, tumbling down the rabbit hole to the ordinary Thursday almost eight months ago when it all began. My hand had rested on Jack’s knee, both of his gripping the steering wheel as we’d bumped down the potholed lane, exchanging a look of pure pleasure as we’d curved into the driveway past the board now displaying ‘SOLD’.
Before the van had properly stopped, I was opening the door. Despite my snivelling cold I could smell the difference in the air: honeysuckle and happiness.
‘Do you want to unload—’
‘Nope.’ I couldn’t wait to get inside. Our scant possessions crammed into the back of our hired transit could wait. Our last rental was fully furnished, and we didn’t own much. There was nothing I needed in that moment except to step over the threshold of our new home with the man I loved.
Jack had taken my hand. Our fingers linking together the way they had a million times before, as we gazed in wonder at the decrepit three-storey detached that had somehow become ours. Despite the hard work that lay ahead, it felt like the right decision. The warm breeze on my cheek, the birds singing from trees that lined the side of the house, the lazy buzzing of bumblebees, all seemed to welcome us.
‘This is it, Libby.’
Despite my thumping headache, streaming nose and sore throat, I tingled with excitement as I drank it all in. The pops of yellow amongst the jungle-like garden as daffodils poked their cheerful heads through the tangle of weeds. Tucked in the corner, a mass of pink that I thought were weeds but were so pretty I vowed not to pull them up. The peeling paint on the front door; I was itching to restore it to a glossy racing-car green, shining the brass knocker back to its original glory. Tall and proud against a backdrop of a clear blue sky, the towering chimneys. I could imagine smoke curling into a winter’s evening as Jack and I lazed in front of the fire, dipping toasted marshmallows into melted chocolate. It was easy to romanticize. We’d never owned our own home before, never even lived in a house before, but the three years spent in our cramped modern flat already seemed part of our distant past.
‘I don’t know whether to run away or run inside.’ Jack turned to me. ‘Are we—’
‘We are.’ We’d had endless conversations. A volley of reasons why we shouldn’t do this, taking it in turns to be the one with doubts and fears that the other would bat away with logic and reassurance. ‘Let’s get a selfie. I want to capture every second of today.’
I raised my phone, rather than the camera looped around my neck.
Our heads touched, goofy smiles on both of our faces, paint-plastered beanie on Jack’s head. He dangled the key at the lens, the sun glinting off the metal. Behind us a single bird glided through the sky.
‘Perfect.’ I stuffed my phone back into my pocket.
Jack offered me the key. I shook my head. ‘This is your moment, Jack. Your dream.’
A cloud of uncertainty passed across his face.
‘Our dream,’ I corrected and that was partly true. A long and happy life with Jack was my dream, and the rest… I was happy to support Jack in his new venture the way he always supported me in mine.
‘Always the photographer,’ he grinned. ‘Never off duty.’
‘Always the artist.’ I reached up to wipe a smudge of paint from his cheek. He’d been to his studio on the way to collect the van.
‘This is it!’ He slipped the key into the lock. His joy was palpable. For a second I forgot my raging temperature, the ache in my bones, how badly this spring bout of flu had hit me, instead feeling nothing but an immense pride for this man who was going to make a difference to so many lives in the way that he had to mine.
‘Jack?’
He turned to look at me over his shoulder. My finger squeezed the shutter button. The click reassured me that my Canon had captured the image. I didn’t need to examine the screen to know it was the perfect shot. Jack’s unruly dark hair flopping slightly over his left eye. The grey of his irises that had darkened to slate the way they did when he was properly joyful. His mouth stretched into a smile displaying his white teeth, one of the front ones slightly crooked. It was the picture-perfect moment I would pour over again and again in the following months, my fingertips lightly brushing the glossy photo paper, almost feeling everything we had felt that day.
Now…
‘Wait,’ I called, wanting to document everything, squeezing past him into the hallway and crouching on one knee. The first shot was of his battered old-school Vans trainers stepping onto the dull and dusty floorboards; for the second I raised my lens to his face. That beautiful face more familiar to me than my own.
‘Enough.’ Laughing, he pulled me to my feet before pressing his lips hard against mine. I dissolved into a coughing fit. ‘Very romantic.’
‘Sorry.’ I pulled a tissue out of my pocket to wipe my streaming eyes. ‘I think I’m due for another dose of something.’
I shrugged off my jacket and slung it over the banister before heading t
owards the kitchen, my eyes lingering on the dark rectangle spaces on the faded burgundy walls where family photos might once have hung. I couldn’t resist raising my camera and taking a snap of the space where one day we would display our own pictures, adding to the already-rich history of this house. How sad would we feel if we had to pack up our belongings and leave? I couldn’t imagine.
Jack wrapped his arms around my waist. I leaned back against him. I knew he was thinking about the same thing I was.
Sid.
Another sneeze drove me into the kitchen. It was unkept – cobwebs stretching across the dark wooden beams that striped the ceiling – but not unloved. You could gauge that once this had been a happy home. A place filled with laughter. I promised that it would be again, not knowing I was making a promise that would be impossible to keep. I had a strange sense of déjà vu as I looked around. Almost a sense I had lived here before, it felt so meant to be.
There was a cream range cooker that I had no idea how to use. Country pine cupboards, cabinet doors hanging skew-whiff, empty shelves coated with dust. I was exploring every nook and cranny, running my finger across the tiles where faded images of ducks and chickens marched across the cracks, when Jack brought in a box from the car.
‘If my amazing organizational skills are right, there should be a kettle in here. I’ll make you a Lemsip.’
‘I don’t know where I put them but I’ve got some paracetamol in my bag.’ I found them and popped two out of their foil cocoon.
Jack ran the tap; the water gurgled and spluttered. He sloshed some into two mugs and handed one to me.
‘To Sid,’ he raised his mug.
‘I think it’s bad luck to toast with water.’ I wasn’t superstitious but I didn’t want to tempt fate either.
‘Rubbish.’ He clinked his mug against mine. ‘We have all the luck today.’
Now I can’t help wondering if things might be different if we hadn’t toasted. Would life be better? Easier? Smoother?
Different.
But then I’d conceded Jack was right – that the old wives’ tale was rubbish – because my mobile beeped an email alert from Greta, my partner in the photography business we ran.
I could feel the smile spread over my face as I read the email once, twice, three times, but still I couldn’t quite absorb it. ‘I’ve got it! Jack, I’ve got it!’ My eyes flickered across the email again to make sure.
Jack picked me up and swung me around. I felt dizzy with it all: the house, him, the goods news I’d just received. The news I didn’t have to explain because we were so tuned in to each other. Or so I thought.
Then.
‘So next year…’ He planted a kiss on my lips.
‘Next year.’ We high-fived before he drew me in for another hug. Today was the day our stars had aligned. Everything was falling into place. The Hawley Foundation Prize was a huge deal for photographers. It wasn’t only the large cash sum if you won but the exposure. It lent a sense of credibility to the winner. Photography was such an overcrowded market. It was difficult to make a mark. You had to be selected to enter and I’d pitched unsuccessfully for a place for the past four years. Each competition is themed, and this year it was ‘ageing’. I’d desperately wanted to be chosen. I had wanted to feature Sid, but once more, I had received a ‘thanks for your application but regretfully…’ response.
But now… a yes!
I scanned my screen again, hardly daring to believe it was true.
‘Next year’s theme is hope.’ My face was aching from grinning. Possibilities were already whirring around my head. I could feature this house. Jack’s project. What could be more hopeful than our future plans? It felt so apt.
But then came the first phone call.
The first star shifting out of alignment. My universe already spinning off its perfect path.
But I didn’t know it then.
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The Life We Almost Had Page 29